


Like Tomorrow Won't Arrive

by dreamlittleyo



Series: I'm Not Sorry (Kinky Dice Oneshots) [7]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Everything Is Broken Forever, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Pining, Rape, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-17 07:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16512005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Hamilton is caught in a time loop, trapped for over two years, and going slowly out of his mind. None of this absolves him when he does something unforgivable.





	1. Chapter 1

Much as Hamilton might wish otherwise, he knows exactly how long he's been caught in this loop. He knows just how many times he's lived the same exact day—no variations except those he himself is able to introduce—no changes or surprises or progress.

No hope.

Hamilton is not a scientist, but he doesn't need science to run the basic math. He's been living the same day for two years, seven months, and three weeks. Long enough to figure out there is no escaping. His crew mates can't help him solve the conundrum in the narrow window of time. He can't avoid the incomprehensible trap that surrounds him, starting over again and again, relentless as eternity itself.

He wakes sluggish and a little hungover, just like every iteration. A night drinking with John and Hercules seemed like a good idea the night before. He couldn't have known he would wake to the after-effects dozens, hundreds, _thousands_ of times. He knows how the rest of the day will play out from here if he does nothing. Everything normal for a while, but then a distress signal, an away mission, a stormy canyon on an unfamiliar planet. That _goddamn machine_.

Hamilton has tried avoiding the assignment. He's tried warning the rest of the crew away. He's convinced Washington to set course for a completely different sector, putting lightyears between the Nelson and the planet.

He has tried a great many other things, some of them deadly, all of them desperate. Nothing works. Distance _does not work_. The clock runs out every time, and it doesn't matter if Hamilton is nowhere near the planet—if he isn't touching the machine—he wakes up anyway, foggy and hungover and furious. The day resets. The cycle begins again.

Somewhere just past the one-year mark, Hamilton had realized there was one fragment of a silver lining to his predicament. Perpetually resetting means there are no consequences to his actions. No one else is experiencing this day the way he is—he spent months searching in the hopes he might not be alone—which means there are no witnesses. No fallout. He can tell Burr to go fuck himself. He can punch Thomas Jefferson in the face. He can proposition _anyone he wants_.

He has done all these things and more. In between bursts of trying to solve the impossible puzzle, Hamilton has given his id free rein. He's instigated arguments and brawls. He has spoken his mind on subjects he usually tries to avoid. He has seduced every one of his closest friends, and been surprised how readily each of them fell into bed with him.

Desperation still drives him. This repeating day is an unbreakable cage and Hamilton wants _out_. But the pure novelty of his intimate encounters staved off the worst of the endless dread for a time.

He rises grudgingly from his bed now, and contacts the bridge to tell them he won't be present for his duty shift. He offers no explanation. It's not as though he needs to worry about being punished. Tomorrow still won't come.

His breath shivers, uneven in his chest. He aches in ways he does not have words to express.

Seventy-three cycles ago Hamilton did something that scared him despite the futility of his situation: he propositioned his captain.

It should not have been any more terrifying than seducing his friends. After all, he could still be certain of escaping any complicated consequences. But Washington was different. _Is_ different. It wasn't just about consequences; unlike the rest, Hamilton sincerely cared about Washington's answer.

He cared a whole goddamn lot.

But Washington turned him down, and has continued to do the same ever since. Every day Hamilton has tried a different approach, a different strategy, a different pitch. He has begged, argued, even outright lied. Washington refuses him every time. Stoic, stubborn, and infuriatingly righteous. He has not touched Hamilton. He's pushed away every kiss, every intimacy, every attempt to get close.

The worst part is, _Washington wants him_. There have been a handful of times Hamilton's gotten him to admit it, but even that doesn't change the outcome. If anything, Washington pushes him away even more forcefully. As though having shown some fragment of vulnerability—of _real feeling_ —he now has something to prove.

And Hamilton is going slowly out of his fucking mind.

Normally Washington's duty shifts overlap Hamilton's perfectly—a fact he now suspects is far from coincidental—but today is an exception. Washington is recovering from a double shift, and will be in his quarters. Not asleep, but relaxing. If the day played out as normal, Hamilton would attend his shift and not even see his captain until the distress signal, roughly six hours from now. But Hamilton isn't attending his own shift today, and six hours is not the interval before he sees Washington's face: it's the window of opportunity he is banking on.

His captain has turned him down seventy-three times, and Hamilton is still trapped in this hell of endless repetition. It is distinctly possible he's starting to unravel.

Hamilton doesn't dress in his uniform today, but in civilian clothes. Soft fabric, comfortable and nondescript. Even without the threat of consequences, what he's about to do… He can't do it wearing a Starfleet uniform. His pulse speeds as he asks himself: is he really going through with this?

One more task before he departs: he hacks into the Nelson's security subroutines and programs a customized command override. It's code only he can access, and the rest of the senior staff won't be able to deconstruct—at least not quickly enough to matter. Such a task would've been beyond him before he fell into this trap, but Hamilton has learned a great many new skills. He's had to fill his time somehow; he can't spend _every cycle_ searching for nonexistent solutions and fucking his best friends.

Then, even though his stomach is twisting into knots and he is riding the razor's edge of panic, Hamilton steps out of his quarters and into the corridor. It's a quick detour to sickbay, where he avoids notice as he gathers what he needs. It would be easy enough to explain his presence—he's never willingly declined a duty shift before—but he's relieved to escape without being spotted.

His chest goes tight as he turns toward Washington's quarters. Eagerness and terror and wild excitement tangle inside him, an undercurrent of anger coursing beneath it all. Not anger at Washington—his captain has done nothing wrong. Hamilton can't blame him for failing to help him escape this trap _or_ for turning him down. No, the anger is a helpless thing, a monster raging fearful and destructive and completely out of control.

But Washington makes for a tempting target, and Hamilton _cannot_ keep on like this. He's stretched too thin, taut and ready to snap. He can't keep fighting forever.

This—what he's about to do—won't solve anything. It won't fix his predicament or keep the threatening madness at bay. But god _fucking_ damn it, Hamilton doesn't care.

He has the hypospray tucked up his sleeve when he reaches Washington's door. He knows exactly what he will find inside these quarters. He knows where everyone is aboard the Nelson right now, and precisely what they are doing. He's lived this day too many times _not_ to have memorized every detail.

Rather than sound the chime, Hamilton overrides the security protocols and steps through the door.

Washington is sitting upright in bed—old-fashioned book in hand and a cup of coffee on his nightstand—but he's already reacting when Hamilton crosses the threshold. Moving as though to stand. His efforts freeze in a visible lurch of confusion when he sees that it's _Hamilton_ entering his private quarters unannounced.

"Please don't get up," Hamilton says, stepping forward so the door can swish quietly shut behind him. He sounds breathless to his own ears. Wrong. Overwhelmed by the fire twisting and scorching beneath his skin.

Washington's expression is a storm of perplexed concern, but he subsides. Eases back once more so that his spine is against the wall, then closes his book without marking the page and sets it down beside his coffee. There is caution in the slow way he moves. Hamilton's dramatic and unaccustomed entrance has obviously put him on high alert.

"Hamilton, what the hell is going on?" The furrow at the center of Washington's brow deepens as he watches Hamilton cross the room, slow and deliberate. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Why does something have to be wrong?" Hamilton reaches the bed and—barely hesitating—sits on the edge. Putting himself blatantly in Washington's space.

Washington's eyes widen and there it is: the flashing, fleeting glimpse of guilt Hamilton has seen before. The confirmation that his captain wants him, a fact that renders Washington's repeated refusals all the more maddening. God damn his captain's unyielding moral compass. Washington is capable of such selfish pragmatism in other realms; why is _this_ the one place his code of honor remains unshakable?

Fuck it. Just because Hamilton already knows the outcome—just because he's tried this dozens of times without success—doesn't mean he can't try again. One more time.

He leans in and kisses his captain. And for a split second of perfect stillness, he is able to pretend this time will be different.

Then Washington sets firm hands on both of Hamilton's shoulders and pushes him away. Hamilton doesn't allow himself to be pushed far. He is still crowding stubbornly into Washington's space. Greedy despite the blatant rejection. He can read alarm in Washington's normally impassive face, and it's already clear how this conversation will go.

"Yeah," Hamilton mutters, tired and shattered. "Figured as much." Then he slips the hypospray out of his sleeve and presses it to Washington's neck. There's a soft hiss as the sedative injects beneath the skin, and the look of alarm in Washington's face widens into confounded disbelief.

Hamilton bites his tongue and keeps silent, even when Washington moves as though to rise from the bed. It's a farce of an attempt. The sedative is too fast-acting, and Washington's eyes are already drooping shut, his shoulders slumping against the wall.


	2. Chapter 2

Washington is groggy when consciousness returns. His senses spin, though they steady out quickly enough as he blinks reluctant eyes open.

He's still in his quarters, familiar and brightly lit. Memory sharpens instantly and he turns his head—finds Hamilton approaching the bed where Washington sits.

When he tries to move—to rise from the spot—Washington realizes he _can't_. He is held in place by metal restraints that circle either wrist, secured somehow to the corners of his own bed. They keep him down with little room to maneuver, trapping him precisely where he is.

At least he is still aboard the Nelson. Whatever the purpose of this trap—whoever this imposter is—if it's to be a kidnapping, the thing obviously hasn't been completed, which means he will have an opportunity to escape. If it's some other purpose—torture, threats, an attempt to take over his ship—he can find a way to warn his crew.

The fact that he hasn't been gagged seems a foolish oversight, and Washington opens his mouth to speak before the image of Hamilton can get too close. "Computer, security protocol seven-six-gamma!" The words come out nearly a shout; how can they not when Washington's heart is pounding like panic behind his ribs?

He hears the computer's familiar melodic beep, and then an emotionless voice answers, "Unable to comply. Security override six-nine-six-three. Vocal input not recognized."

" _Computer_ ," Washington snarls more forcefully, " _Command override_ , Washington, code—"

"It won't work." His captor interrupts with eerie calm, then sits on the edge of Washington's bed, so close their hips are nearly touching. The doppelgänger wears soft civilian attire that is almost a perfect match for the color of Washington's own clothing. "I've rewritten the relevant subroutines at their base level. Your command clearance has been disabled. The computer no longer acknowledges your authority."

Washington stares, choking back a more powerful wave of fear. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Alexander Hamilton," the intruder answers steadily. "Rank, Lieutenant Colonel. Current assignment, U.S.S. Nelson, NCC-1776. Post, Communications chief."

"You _are not_ Hamilton."

The intruder gives a shake of his head that looks almost sad. "I didn't figure you'd believe me. Why should you? But it's really me. I need you to know that."

A sliver of credulity sneaks past Washington's defenses. This cannot be Hamilton. His boy is loyal, and not capable of whatever the hell this is. What purpose can this possibly serve, even if he credits the assertion?

"You still don't believe me." A rueful shake of the head, and the intruder continues. "If you had _any idea_ what I've been through, how many times we've had this conversation… Well, not _exactly_ this conversation. I've never tied you up before."

"What the hell are you—"

"It's really me, sir. I'm trapped. Stuck in an infinitely repeating time displacement. And I'm so fucking _tired_."

Something in the timbre of his voice, the tilt of his head, the exhausted sincerity on his face… Some amalgam of factors hits Washington solidly in the chest, and he recognizes the unwanted truth in the words. Unlikely as it might seem, this _really is_ his communications chief. Hamilton _is_ sitting beside him, telling the absolute truth. And whether or not Washington understands—whether or not he wants to believe—has no bearing on what is real.

"Alexander," Washington acknowledges, his own voice thick with betrayed confusion. "What the hell are you doing? What is this?" Belatedly he remembers that his boy kissed him. He cannot begin to guess _why_ ; he's sure he never gave any cause to suspect his own complicated infatuation.

Hamilton sets a hand on Washington's leg—on his thigh several inches above the knee—and says softly, "I won't apologize. I'm not that much of a hypocrite."

Washington swallows even though his mouth has gone dry. "Let me out of these restraints. Whatever's wrong, I can help you. The crew can help you."

"The crew will try and fail." Hamilton's eyes are steady, his posture unflinching. Unassailable certainty glints in his expression. "You think I haven't explored every option? I have. Dozens of times over. I've explained and researched. I've rerouted the ship. I've killed myself. I've triggered a fucking super nova. _Nothing works_."

"Then why are you here?" Washington quashes a burst of sympathy. "Why sedate and restrain me?" _Why kiss me_ , he thinks but does not say.

A look that could be heartbreak shadows Alexander's eyes. He takes his hand off Washington's thigh and curls it along his jaw instead, a gentle thumb stroking his cheek.

"Because," Hamilton murmurs. "You refuse to touch me, and I've tried everything else. If this is the only way to get what I want, why shouldn't I take it? In a matter of hours the universe will reset anyway. I'll lose everything. Again. Nothing matters." A terrifying intensity creeps into Hamilton's eyes as his voice rises, and a flicker of genuine fear chills Washington's chest. He can no longer convince himself this is some doppelgänger or imposter, but he's suddenly certain that neither is this _his_ Hamilton. The ordeals his boy is describing—the trials, the impossible trap—he can see the truth of those things in the frantic glimmer behind dark eyes.

"Talk to me, Colonel." Washington injects a calm he does not feel into the words. A soothing tone. "Tell me what happened. How did you become caught? How long is the window you're repeating? How many times have you experienced this loop?"

For a long, silent moment he honestly thinks Hamilton will answer him.

Then Alexander shakes his head and says, "You don't get it. None of that matters. It's not why I'm here."

There's so much pain in the simple statement that Washington's heart lurches. He has _always_ known the helpless and ineffectual feeling of wanting to protect Alexander Hamilton. He would spare any member of his crew such agony if he could, but that it's Hamilton hurting… He can't pretend the failure is not worse.

His feelings for Hamilton are a perpetual problem, but they're worse when he has to watch his boy suffer.

Washington's voice is gravel in his throat when he asks, "Then why _are_ you here?"

The glimmer in Hamilton's eyes takes on a different edge—a vicious and almost predatory sharpness honing his expression—and he moves with unaccustomed grace. Climbs smoothly into Washington's lap, folding one leg over to straddle his thighs before settling there as though this is the most natural position in the world.

"I'm here for _you_ , sir." Hamilton says the words with a quiet bluntness that lodges ice in Washington's gut.

"Colonel, if you are suggesting—"

"I'm not _suggesting_ a damn thing." Hamilton's eyes narrow and his tone turns harsh. "I am _telling you_. I know you want me. I know you want to fuck me. And I'm through listening to you lecture about all the reasons I'm not good enough!"

"I have _never_ said you weren't good enough," Washington rasps. He has never even thought it. Alexander Hamilton is an impossible officer; Washington has never worked with anyone more loyal, more driven, more competent. "And whatever you might think, I never intended—"

"But you've _wanted to_ ," Hamilton interrupts, as though cutting short an argument he has heard too many times.

There's no point claiming otherwise when Hamilton clearly perceives the truth.

Instead Washington says, "Surely you understand why I can't—"

"You're doing it again," Hamilton snarls. "I told you, I don't want to hear this. I'm _done_. You don't get a say anymore."

The ice spreads to Washington's chest and clenches around his heart.

Before he can recover his voice to protest, Hamilton frames his face with both hands and kisses him. Washington tries to turn away, but Hamilton is tenacious, and stronger than he looks, and does not let him go. The kiss lingers as though to prove that Washington is thoroughly at Hamilton's mercy.

When they part, Hamilton easing back without letting go, they're both breathing hard. Washington's heart is pounding fast with an ugly mix of fear and disbelief. Worse than those things, tucked between the fault lines of his faltering defenses, Washington recognizes the first kindling of a purely physical arousal. Hamilton is warm on his lap, and he is right about one thing: Washington _has_ wanted.

Not like this— _never_ like this—but there's something raw and instinctive in the way his body reacts to Hamilton's proximity.

Shame twists beneath Washington's skin as these truths overtake him, but it's nowhere near enough to extinguish that first spark of desire. Neither is the horrified fury at what Hamilton is doing, the ugly threat of what he intends. Washington has no delusions Hamilton will content himself with a kiss, but the thought of more sends both his mind and heart skidding somewhere lost and helpless.

"You can't do this," Washington whispers, staring into his boy's wild and unrecognizable eyes. "You _will not_ do this. Colonel, I am _ordering you_ to release me."

Hamilton gives him a pitying look as Washington struggles uselessly against his restraints.

"I don't think so," Hamilton says with renewed softness.

"Alexander, please." Washington changes his tone, gentles his voice. He gives Hamilton what he hopes is an earnest look. "I didn't know. If I had… It doesn't have to be like this. I can't _touch you_ like this. Please let me go, and we'll do this right."

The pitying look is replaced almost instantly with a flare of anger, and Hamilton blurts, "How goddamn stupid do you think I am?"

"Alexander—"

"Don't lie to me. Don't you _fucking dare_. You have no intention of giving me what I want. You're just hoping for a chance to fight me off. You'll overpower me in seconds if I release you, and what then?"

" _Alexander_ —"

"No!" Hamilton shouts, silencing Washington's increasingly desperate attempts to interrupt. "I'm _not stupid_. You think you can manipulate me? You're wrong. You fucking _can't_. We've had this fight too many times. This time we do things my way."

He kisses Washington again, more brutal now—a brief but bruising attack crushing their mouths together. This time when Hamilton withdraws, he curls forward and buries his face against Washington's throat. His breath is hot and there's a brush of lips, a graze of teeth. Washington is somehow not surprised when Hamilton's mouth closes hard just over his pulse point, teeth and suction and a swipe of tongue as his boy deliberately marks him.

It takes every ounce of Washington's self control to keep from hyperventilating as reality settles like cement around him.

"Stop thinking so hard," Hamilton murmurs when he eases back with one last nuzzle at Washington's throat. "I'm gonna make you feel amazing. Just let it happen."

" _Please_ ," Washington gasps, one last desperate bid even though he can see in Hamilton's eyes how incapable the boy is of stopping now. "I don't want you to do this."

"Maybe not," Hamilton concedes carelessly. "But you're already hard." He shifts his weight atop Washington's lap to emphasize his point, and the friction makes Washington inhale sharply—makes him abruptly aware of his rigid cock nudging between Hamilton's thighs.

Futility settles over Washington's senses, and despair quiets him even as Hamilton slips a deft hand downward—between their bodies—to palm Washington and give a deliberate stroke along the still-clothed length. It's a tease and a promise, and the touch disappears quickly in favor of another task: stripping away Washington's clothing with sudden focused impatience. Apparently the crime Hamilton intends to commit is not enough; he needs to lay his captain bare.

Washington resists the efforts, but Hamilton is nimble, and clever, and far too efficient for his own good. By the time his hands fall away, all Washington still wears are the sleeves of the shirt that's been unbuttoned and shoved back over his shoulders—Hamilton couldn't slide them the rest of the way off Washington's arms without removing the restraints, and he was clearly unwilling to do so.

Washington's cock is still hard, and an irrational burst of self-loathing roars through him at the fact.

"It's impressive, honestly." Hamilton slips from the bed long enough to strip out of his own casual attire. Washington's eyes track every movement even as he admonishes himself to look away, and Hamilton keeps right on talking. "I've never met anyone else as stubborn as I am. I _always_ get my way. I'm persuasive as hell. But you…"

Washington swallows, and Hamilton's shirt falls to the floor.

"You're different." Hamilton kicks off his boots and shucks his pants, leaving him completely bare to Washington's guiltily roving eyes. "If you were just willing to _listen_ … God, if you'd given in _just once_." Hamilton stills, and his back is to Washington. His shoulders tight, painful tension in the naked lines of that compact frame.

Washington doesn't speak. There is nothing he can say to prevent this train wreck—he understands that all too clearly—and he refuses to engage with Hamilton's unhinged monologue. He will not participate, as Hamilton seems to crave, in a discussion about his own assault.

There is a moment of total and eerie stillness. A moment in which thoughtless hope flares in Washington's chest that maybe Alexander will change his mind. Surely his boy will balk at committing such a grievous wrong, now that they're in the moment. Surely even shattered and hurting and lost, Hamilton is not capable of this.

Then Hamilton drags the elastic tie from his tight queue and lets dark strands cascade loose about his shoulders. He gives a shake of his head and runs his fingers through his hair, before turning and climbing back onto the bed.

The look in his eyes is rage and hunger and determination, and the agonized hope in Washington's chest flickers and dies.

He clenches his jaw tightly to keep himself from pleading when—instead of returning to his lap—Hamilton nudges Washington's knees apart and settles between them.

"Do you have any fucking idea," Hamilton says, voice low and emphatic as he slides his hands slowly up Washington's thighs, "how much it hurts to know you have feelings for me… To know you _want me_ … But not enough to do anything about it?"

Washington can't entirely stifle a faint whimper when Hamilton trails teasing fingers along the length of his still damningly rigid cock—or the sharp inhale when Hamilton bends down and licks a taunting stripe from root to tip. Hamilton ducks his head, nuzzling at the hollow of Washington's thigh, then moves up to press a kiss to Washington's hip before putting his entire focus front-and-center. Eyeing Washington's cock like he can barely restrain himself.

Washington closes his eyes and tips his head back with a thump against the wall. He can't bear to look—to see Hamilton touch him with all the gentleness of a lover—when he's already refused what is being offered.

"Relax," Hamilton chides, and his breath is warm over Washington's bare skin. "I know what I'm doing. I'm not going to hurt you."

For all his best efforts at silence, Washington can't hold back the sharp, grating burst of laughter at the words. The laugh holds nothing of humor. It's an awful sound, graveled and painful and disbelieving. Ugly, like the feelings in Washington's chest.

Ugly like the way Hamilton is touching him now.

"Shhh," Hamilton hushes him with deceptive gentleness. "Just breathe, sir. Let me make you feel good."

Then Hamilton takes him in. And never mind that Washington's eyes are closed—never mind that he cannot _see_ what Hamilton is doing—there's no escaping the perfect slide of slick heat closing around his cock.

Washington should not be surprised that Hamilton is good at this. Hasn't he spent ample time imagining the boy's talented mouth and the things it might do under more private circumstances? Why _shouldn't_ his boy have honed this skill just as fiercely as any other?

He tries to keep quiet, but a helpless groan escapes him as Hamilton moves with a calculated rhythm. Not just sliding suction along his cock—not just teasing with that talented tongue—but eventually taking him all the way down. Drawing him deep with barely any resistance, not even gagging as Washington's cock slips down his throat.

A swallow works around him, and Washington cries out at the overwhelming pleasure of it.

Hamilton eases back, hums a satisfied sound, and oh god, _that_ feels good too. The vibrations shiver through Washington, and his hips try to buck forward. But Alexander's hands are braced atop his thighs, and they hold him still.

" _Stop_ ," Washington gasps desperately. His eyes open, but his vision is blurry and indistinct. He's too close to the edge, and never mind his determination to stay quiet, he cannot ride through the crest of his orgasm without protest. Fuck how good it feels; he _does not want this_.

He's genuinely shocked when Hamilton eases back instead of forcing him over the edge. Even more startling is the fact that, a moment later, Hamilton ceases touching him completely.

With grudging reluctance, Washington lowers his head and his gaze, so that he can look Hamilton directly in the face. He's not sure what he expects to find. Laughter? Possessiveness? A teasing smile?

Instead he finds a look heavier and more solemn than he has ever seen on the boy's face. There is aching intensity in Hamilton's eyes as he sits back on his heels and scrutinizes Washington with an appraising sweep. Here too Washington can see the wounded madness behind Hamilton's illusory calm, and for just a moment his own betrayed agony gives way to a different sort of heartbreak—the knowledge that his boy is in trouble, trapped and hurting and shattered down to his core—and there is _nothing_ Washington can do to help him.

The lapse passes quickly. He can spare little energy for sympathy under these current circumstances.

His eyes are burning, but he does not flinch away from Hamilton's piercing stare. He refuses to provide the satisfaction.

There's an endless quality to the stillness that settles between them. Washington's breathing slows, though it's more conscious effort than calm. His heart continues beating at an alarming rate and his whole body sings with trepidation. There's no way Hamilton is through with him; and having come this far, there's no way he will refrain from taking everything he wants. Once again Washington chokes down the useless urge to beg for a reprieve. He won't be able to bear the sting when Alexander does not listen.

"I know you've been in love with me for years," Hamilton finally says, fracturing the unbearable silence. He edges forward slowly, as though there's any chance of spooking Washington away. "I didn't know before all this. Before I got stuck. If I had… Fuck, it probably wouldn't have made any difference. One day or a hundred, I wasn't ever going to convince you to touch me."

Washington clenches his jaw, keeping in all but a short, helpless sound. There's no point denying what Hamilton clearly knows, but he refuses to offer independent confirmation. Warm weight returns to Washington's lap—Hamilton straddling his thighs once more—rolling his hips just enough to spike pleasure as his body provides heavenly and unwelcome friction along Washington's cock. The space between Hamilton's thighs offers maddening heat, and Washington swallows. Closes his eyes. Tries not to imagine what it would feel like to fuck forward—hard—up into the boy's eager body.

It's difficult to quell the heady rush of fantasy, familiar after so many years guarding this secret. The horror of what Hamilton is doing—what Hamilton has _already done_ —collides with things Washington _has_ wanted for years. The contradiction leaves him nauseous.

His eyes startle open when Hamilton shifts and rises to kneel, and a warm hand closes around the base of his cock. He finds Hamilton peering into his face with brutal focus. One of the boy's hands clutches tight to Washington's shoulder, bracing for balance, as with the other he guides the head of Washington's cock to his entrance.

Washington's mind and heart shy from the knowledge—from this incomprehensible violation—even as he feels grudging muscle relax and let him in. Oh god, Hamilton is already slick, if still staggeringly tight; he has prepared himself for this.

There's no rational reason the knowledge should be any worse than what has already happened, but bright new agony ricochets through Washington's chest in answer. He suddenly cannot breathe. His lungs are frozen, his face hot, his heart somehow simultaneously racing and hardening to a block of ice in his chest.

There is a sob lodged somewhere behind his ribs, and Washington clenches his eyes shut as he tries to contain it.

He fails. The sob shakes out of him, a wounded sound that seems to fill the entire room. It doesn't slow Hamilton down. If anything, Alexander seems to sink faster, riding down on Washington's cock and taking him steadily deeper. The physical pleasure is overwhelming; it raises bile at the back of Washington's throat, and for a moment he's sure he will be sick.

The wave of roiling nausea passes, but the horror does not.

"Look at me," Hamilton pleads softly.

Washington shakes his head hard. He keeps his eyes closed.

Hamilton clenches around him, and Washington breathes a helpless groan. And then there is a shift of weight, a press forward, their chests sliding together as Hamilton frames his jaw and kisses him again. It's a slow kiss. Exploring and greedy, one of Hamilton's arms twining along Washington's shoulders as though to hold him more securely. Washington offers no resistance this time. There seems very little point.

When the kiss breaks, Hamilton _moves_. Rising once more onto his knees so that most of Washington's cock withdraws from his body. Then he drops, faster this time, taking him in with too much speed to be gentle. The strained sound of Hamilton's gasp makes Washington wonder if this is too much—if it hurts—his boy is certainly tight enough. Tighter than Washington expected by far.

Incongruous, perhaps, that amid all this betrayal he still does not want to hurt his boy.

_Stop_ , he wants to plead, but he bites his own tongue hard enough to draw blood instead. He's breathing faster now, panting shallowly as Hamilton rises and settles once more. Riding Washington greedily. Fucking himself on his captain's cock, as though he has _any goddamn right_.

Washington heaves a shuddering breath, an attempt to get a proper lungful of air, but it's not enough. His head is spinning, his nerves are alight, his skin is hot.

His soul is screaming.

It feels as though it will never end. Despite Hamilton's frantic pace. Despite the tidal wave of orgasm climbing ever higher and ever closer. It's too much. Washington's entire world has narrowed to _Alexander_. The warm weight of him in Washington's lap. The intimate vice of his body around Washington's cock. The shaky gust of breath across sweat-slick skin where Hamilton has buried his face beneath Washington's jaw. The wild, uneven sounds Hamilton gasps into the air with every rise and fall—sounds that could just as easily be pain as pleasure—though the determination with which Hamilton continues to _move_ suggests the scale must surely tip toward pleasure.

Overwhelmed as he is by the disaster of feelings in his chest—and the overwhelming rush of more physical sensations—it takes Washington by surprise when he realizes Hamilton is speaking. One word, over and over again. A desperate mantra cutting into the imperfect quiet.

" _Please_ ," Hamilton gasps, lips brushing Washington's skin. "Please-please-please-please-please—" As though he is begging for something has captain has any power to bestow.

Even if Washington had any idea what Alexander needs, he would not be inclined to offer it now.

When Hamilton comes, the clench of his body is all the extra stimulus it takes to force Washington over the edge with him. Orgasm fractures through him, hot and spiraling and carrying him out of his own head. Washington hears his own voice shatter the quiet, an inarticulate cry. He doesn't hear Hamilton cry out, but he can't tell if it's because his boy remains silent or if he simply can't perceive anything past the tidal wave upending his own perceptions.

His world crashes like a snow globe hitting the deck, and he can feel the fissuring cracks as they break his heart to pieces. He can't breathe. Can't think. Can't accept a single thing his senses are telling him as real.


	3. Chapter 3

Hamilton takes only enough time to dress before removing Washington's restraints.

He's not surprised to find himself promptly escorted to the brig. The security officers wear matching confounded expressions, because Washington has not told them _why_ Hamilton is being thrown in a holding cell. There's no reason to put up a fight, so he doesn't. Just sits quietly as the force field is activated, trapping him in the little room.

Considering he already knows he'll be here less than a day, it doesn't feel like much of a trap. Certainly nothing compared to the endless cycle closing around him like a noose.

Washington visits him a short time later, wearing a crisp new uniform and a grim expression. The set of broad shoulders is painfully tight. Hamilton rises to his feet and stands at attention before Washington, only the shimmering forcefield separating them. He forces himself to look Washington directly in the face—he will not shy from what he's done.

The silence is agony. It curls through the otherwise empty brig. It lodges shards of ice between Hamilton's ribs.

Washington's eyes are red, but it's impossible to tell if he's been crying. The surge of guilty horror in Hamilton's chest is not enough to make him regret his crime. Rationally he knows it should be. He's never felt more monstrous in his life, but he can't pretend remorse he doesn't feel.

"I've filed my report on your… misconduct." Washington's voice is low and choked, and he trips over the final word. Obviously aware it's not enough to encompass the wrong Hamilton has committed, but also incapable of putting voice to a more accurate name. Attack. Assault. Rape.

Hamilton's teeth grind, but he manages to answer, "I understand, sir."

"If you're telling the truth about your situation, it won't matter. But I _will not_ stand by and allow your actions to go unpunished."

"Of course not," Hamilton agrees, sounding more steady than he feels.

Now Washington's eyes are distinctly wet, though his expression remains stony. Unreadable, not that Hamilton needs to read emotion in his captain's face to intuit what the man is thinking. He can imagine well enough the anger and hurt, the wounded betrayal. The raw and desperate incomprehension. After all, the Alexander Hamilton who Washington knows would never be capable of committing such a deliberate wrong.

That capacity must have been in him somewhere, buried deep. But if even Hamilton never considered the potential, how could Washington ever have guessed?

"You didn't tell the crew," Hamilton notes, more statement than question.

"What purpose would it serve?" Washington asks dully. A fair question. The senior staff doesn't need to know the nature of Hamilton's crime to understand that he is a criminal. And Washington is a prideful man, obsessed with his own public image. Of course he would balk at the thought of his subordinates knowing precisely how Hamilton has hurt him.

Hamilton shivers beneath the weight of Washington's stare, the glint of accusation in dark eyes. At least, he thinks it's accusation. He's finding it remarkably difficult to tell.

He balls his hands into fists so tight his fingernails prick his palms. "I'm not going to apologize."

"No," Washington agrees stiffly. "I didn't suppose you would."

Hamilton waits a beat, two, but when Washington says nothing further he finally demands, "Then why are you here? Why are you even talking to me?"

Washington's jaw ticks and he tilts his head back, stares at the ceiling in taut and awful silence. He blinks hard, and Hamilton realizes what this is. Recognizes this pose. Washington is willing back tears, gathering his composure around himself like a ragged cloak. Several seconds pass, dragging out long and slow, before he lowers his head and looks to the holding cell once more. He's not looking directly at Hamilton—he seems to have picked a place just beyond Hamilton's left shoulder—the closest he can bear to focus.

"Because I need to understand." There's a new rough quality to Washington's voice. A gravel of feeling, less perfectly suppressed every moment.

"What is there to _understand_?" The question comes out shrill, and sharper than Hamilton intends. "I _raped you_. I told you _exactly_ why I did it. What more can you possibly expect me to say?"

"You should have let me help you."

"You can't help me. No one can. Not you, not the rest of the crew, not Starfleet Command. I've already tried everything. There's _no goddamn point_!"

" _So this is your alternative_?" Washington thunders, wounded rage cracking through his brittle facade.

Hamilton does not reply.

Two perfectly symmetrical tears track down either side of Washington's face, but he makes no move to acknowledge or wipe them away. His eyes are wide, his mouth ajar. He is breathing fast and shallow, and he looks ready to reach through the force field and grab Hamilton by the throat.

Hamilton watches with gut-kicked fascination as Washington regains control of himself by painful degrees. The desperate breaths smooth out. The wide eyes narrow.

"Who are you?" Washington asks more softly, strain evident in every syllable.

"You know who I am, sir." Hamilton has made no pretense. Has left no room for confusion or mistake.

"No." Washington shakes his head, gives a hard swallow as though struggling to choke down unwelcome feelings. "This _isn't_ you. Whatever you've been through… You couldn't— _He_ couldn't— My boy is not capable of this."

" _Your boy_?" Hamilton hisses, anger and disbelief dragging the words low in his chest. "After all this, you still— _Fuck_. I was _never_ your boy. I was never _yours_. You sure as hell didn't think so, or you would've at least fucking _considered_ accepting my offer."

Washington turns his head to the side, wrenching his gaze downward and blinking hard. Staring determinedly at nothing. Multiple times he opens his mouth as though to speak, only to press his lips tightly together and remain silent. Tension vibrates along Hamilton's skin, along his spine, along his nerves as he waits.

Finally, still looking to the side, Washington manages to speak. "You were right. About my feelings for you. I've been compromised for a very long time. But _this_ —" The words choke to nothing, and Washington closes his eyes. Folds in on himself a moment later, pinching the bridge of his nose and drawing a harsh breath.

"Sir?" Hamilton hears himself whisper, despite a sincere effort to keep quiet.

Another ragged breath and then Washington's eyes fly open and lock hard on him. "You had _no goddamn right_!"

There is no answer he can give to that. It's a truth too obvious, and so fucking what? Hamilton recognized this fact well before he took irrevocable action. He is not going to argue. He knowingly, _willfully_ damned his own soul in order to possess—just for a moment—something he had no right to take.

Even if he wanted to make amends, there's nothing he can do. Nothing he says will ease the violent agony in Washington's eyes.

Instead he tells the truth, simple and cruel though it is. "In a few hours none of this will matter. I'll wake up in my own quarters like I always do, and you won't remember a thing."

Washington stares, new horror lighting in his eyes, and his voice is barely above a whisper when he asks, "Have you done this before? Have— Have you hurt anyone else?"

There seems little reason to lie. "No. I've never done this before."

Washington looks desperate to believe the assertion. He does not ask the inevitable follow-up question, though Hamilton can see it in his captain's eyes: _Are you going to do it again_? It's a relief that the question doesn't come. Hamilton honestly doesn't know the answer.

His own eyes are burning now. _Here_ are the long-delayed tears, the clog of feelings in his throat.

"Sir," he rasps, taking a step forward, dangerously close to the force field. "I— For what it's worth, I love you too."

Washington's expression ices in an instant, and for several seconds there is only stunned silence between them.

After an absolute eternity, Washington's answer is unyielding stone. "No, Colonel. You clearly do not."

Then he turns, and leaves, and Alexander is truly alone.


End file.
